Dream of Shadows
by exscientialux
Summary: In 1700 a boy is born in the dark splendour of Black Manor. Eleven years later, Orion Black enters Hogwarts, and a brutal struggle between dark and light begins. As Orion comes into his own, the wizarding world stands on the brink of civil war. no slash


**Dream of Shadows**

**I. Childhood**

_Do not train a child to learn by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each._

_Plato_

I was born on the 21st of June, in the zenith of the sun on the day of his greatest power, in the first year of our new century, 1700.

I was born as the first son of Polaris Aries Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black and his wife, Morwenna, born of the Ancient and Noble House of Gaunt.

Naturally, with the station of my birth came certain privileges – and burdens. Before even the traditional naming ritual was performed, I was tested for diseases, internal and external deformities, and of course the strength and property of my body's magic. Only once the healers had determined that I was a healthy heir, and no squib, did we go to the so called naming room.

Only the oldest of magical dynasties use this ancient ritual, which has little magical properties, but is rather a celebration of age-old customs, a reassurance among the old families of our own sublimity and uniqueness.

My father placed me, naked, in a golden basin filled with a clear, thick liquid. He held me under water until the breathing reflex kicked in, and my helpless little lungs filled with the potion.

While I was unconscious and under the effects of the potion, my father spoke into my ears the name that had been chosen for me. Orion Canopus Arcturus Black. In a intense, powerful whisper, the name occupied every corner of my susceptible mind. Orion Canopus Arcturus Black, Orion Canopus Arcturus Black, Orion Canopus Arcturus Black... Again and again, until quite suddenly, the potion expelled itself from my lungs, and with a feebly protesting wail, I started to breathe once more.

Never in my life would I have any doubts as to my identity and purpose: To be a worthy heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, to ascend to the station of Lord upon my fathers death, and, above all, to lead my House to the best of my abilities, to increase it's fortune, standing and influence at every opportunity.

The Potion also served another important purpose: It made sure that the mind of an ancient family's heir could never be turned away from the ideals his family upheld.

After spending only one night in St. Mungo's, my father escorted my mother and me to our ancestral home in London, the House on Grimauld Place, where I was passed around and inspected by a great number of relatives (both of the close and the rather distant sort).

Over the next few years, I grew up safely, surrounded by all the luxuries the magical world could provide. I, of course, had no idea of how preferential my upbringing was – I had no way of knowing there were children who didn't have a personal house elf, two human nannies, all the toys I could ever dream of, and a nursery larger than most commoner's entire homes.

My bouts of accidental magic were not more or less frequent and intense than with any other magical child (they are, after all, not an indicator of power or talent). There was one incident, however, which caused a great deal of excitement in my family: shortly after my 3rd birthday, I began to speak to the door-handles and candle-holders of Grimauld Place (I had already been talking to people for more than a year). Only, I did not talk to them in English, but rather in parseltongue, the language of snakes.

That was surprising. My mother, being a member of the Gaunt family, had the talent, but it had always ever been passed on through the male Gaunt line. Many theories were devised and discarded, and to this day, nobody can say for certain how I came to posses this most rare of magical abilities. Nonetheless, like all male Parseltongues of Gaunt decent, I was considered an heir of Slytherin, for that line was, and still is the only dynasty of Parseltongues in Great Britain.

Ever since that day, my grandfather Morfin and my uncle Morfin (Nobody will claim that the Gaunts are inventive when naming their offspring) visited at least once a week in order to teach me the Magic of Parseltongues.

A small note on this so-called parselmagic: contrary to popular belief among the "light" wizards, this magic is not especially dark, nor inherently more evil or more powerful than any other magic. It's main benefit to the caster is that it can only be countered by parselmagic, and is therefore incredibly useful when dueling wizards who are unable to speak parseltongue.

Naturally, nobody would give my a wand at that age, but I daresay that being introduced to the theoretic concepts of magic at such a tender age helped me develop the extraordinary understanding of all things magical that I posses today.

When I turned five, my father hired several well known tutors to extend my knowledge of conventional magic, and to introduce me to the basics of herbology, magical creatures and potion-making, the wandless magical arts. My teachers were amazed with the amount of understanding I showed, and the eagerness with which I took to my studies.

It was also around that time that I first met my good friend Alexander, my second cousin. Until then, I had had no contact with anyone of my own age, as my parents did not want me to mingle with scions of lesser families, lest someone try to harness my future influence for their own purposes.

Alexander, however, was born of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy, the only house in magical Britain able to rival Black's own standing, and therefore, that fear was alleviated.

The Memory of how we first met is one of the best of my childhood, and it is my pleasure to share it with you.

On that day, I was being tutored in the art of potions, and had just made a rather fatal mistake, causing my potion to turn into something resembling an offensively green sponge-like structure.

My Tutor, Sebastian, also a distant relative of my mother's, currently in his 6th year at Hogwarts was a patient and gifted instructor, who would usually let my figure out my own mistakes.

"Master Black, can you tell me what you did wrong?"

After a few seconds of silence (despite not being alltogether inept at potion-making, I could not for the sake of me figure out what had gone wrong), the door swung open, and a boy my own age entered, saving me from answering a question I knew no answer to.

The arrival was slightly shorter than me, pale, with blond hair, which he wore cropped short, just as all wealthy young wizards in those days did.

I rose swiftly, and stepped confidently up to the other boy. As he was the arrival, and I the host, he would bow first and introduce himself, if he had any manners.

As I had expected, the young wizard bowed at the waist, and after coming up looked me in the eye and spoke softly: "My name is Alexander Nero Malfoy; I am the heir to the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I suspect you are the firstborn Black?"

I answered with a bow that was exactly as deep as his had been, and replied:"You are correct, master Malfoy, my name is Orion Canopus Arcturus Black, heir to the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It would be a pleasure to invite you to call me Orion, though. You are most welcome in this house."

"I insist you call me Alexander then."

My teacher in behaviour and customs (an entirely unpleasant wizened old lady who took great pleasure in rapping me on the fingers for the slightest mistake) would have been so proud of me... In hindsight, I daresay it is a surprise that we ended up the best of friends, but I know, of course, that all young Purebloods conduct their first meetings in that manner.

Alexander told me he would be my companion while we were tutored – after all, my tutors were the very best, and no Malfoy would settle for lesser quality. We would learn together until we both started Hogwarts in the same year, 1711, and learn to be, if not friends, then at least allies, just as our families had been allies for the past centuries.

Ironically, despite being traditionally Slytherin-dominated families, the Malfoys and Blacks showed a loyalty to each other that was almost of a Hufflepuff quality. Of course, there was no more influential family that either of us could turn to, so the situation had the convenient guise of cunning egoism, but I seriously doubt that young Caligulus, Alexander's son would betray me or my family, even if there was a better ally to turn to. After all, even among Slytherins, the power of friendship is not to be underestimated.

I had yet to cast a single spell, as I still lacked a wand, but I estimate that I knew approximately 250 of the most common spells by heart by my seventh birthday. Alexander was not far behind me in that respect, and superior in potions, as he has always been since. A few days after I turned seven, I was allowed to do my first bit of magic, a milestone in every magical child's life. I chose to perform, under the scrutiny of my entire immediate family, a levitation charm, and to my parents immense pride, succeeded flawlessly on the very first attempt.

I held my father's wand, took a deep breath, and without hesitation, I gave a perfect swish and flick, called "Wingardium Leviosa", and was overwhelmed. The feeling of performing magic was indescribable. My vision narrowed until I could only see the floating feather, proof that the magical heritage of my family had once more bred true, the visible sign of my superiority over common muggle folk. My heart seemed to be beating inside my throat, the blood was thundering through my ears, and my breath came in frantic gasps. Once I cancelled the spell and put down my father's wand, I could hardly stand upright, not from exhaustion, but because my whole body was quivering in uncontrollable excitement.

After giving such obvious proof that I could control my magic on a sufficient scale, my parents scheduled a meeting with the wand-maker our family has used for 24 generations. This dynasty of craftsmen, who all go by the name of Sobek, have been in that particular trade since the dawn of the magical kingdom of Lower Egypt, around 6000 thousand years before the birth of the muggle messiah (I would be content to count the years before and after the birth of Merlin, but I am afraid that would lead to much consternation among my readers).

It was not my first travel to a foreign country (We often visited my family's manors on the European mainland), but I had never been to Egypt, and the magical quarters of Memphis are world renowned for their vibrant atmosphere and amazing variety of services and offers.

On arriving per international portkey, we were first assaulted by an unbearable wave of hot, dusty air, and then by a delicious wash of exotic scents, a delightful melange of the most incredible sounds, and not least by a mind numbing display of colours of every hue imaginable and unimaginable. The only place you can find a more diverse range of culture and styles is Byzantium, the crossroads of the World itself.

Sobek's workshop is a small, dishevelled building in a rather unimportant side alley. Enjoying the kind of reputation he does, there is no need for ostentatious glamour or public advertising – the people who matter know where to go. Only a sign depicting two crocodiles uplifting a simple, straight wand showed us that this building was indeed the one we were looking for (My father had been there in his childhood, of course, but it was my special day, so he let me take the lead).

We entered, and promptly, a man bowed to us and offered us refreshments, saying: "The Master will be with you shortly; Please, feel at home." And indeed, the room was one to feel comfortable in, like a well appointed living room – nothing pointed to the owners trade.

Several minutes later, Sobek himself entered. A small man, slight and stooped, he nevertheless commanded the respect and attention of every person in attendance.

"Young Orion, it is a pleasure to supply you with the wand you will use for the rest of your life", he said with a benign smile. This utter confidence in his own skill and the quality of his workmanship was characteristic of Sobek, and indeed, it was justified. Today, over a century later, the wand still works for me as it did on that very first day.

The wand-maker led me through a door, into his actual workshop. Hundreds of different tools and devices stood on tables along the walls. The room itself was as spartan as the front of the shop was lavish. The only object that I could not immediately connect with wand-making was a magnificently wrought incensor made of solid gold.

My scrutiny of the room was interrupted by the old man's voice. "Now, we'll have to find out which core materials speak to your magic, always an amusingly convoluted experience for young children such as you." Just as I opened my mouth to protest that I was almost 7 and a half years old already (it seemed so infinitely important to me to grow up in those days), Sobek held up his hand, the gesture clearly telling me that he did not care for my opinion on the subject. "Now, I will make your mind more susceptible to the flow of magic, and you will have to trust your magic, your very soul, to make the right decision for you." While he was speaking, he gestured for me to follow him to a large shelf. "These orbs-" Only then did I notice the small, clear crystal balls, at least 500 of them, aligned on the shelves three rows deep. "-are the substances that may be utilised to fabricate a focal core, the heart of every wand. Now breathe deeply, and choose well." With that, he pulled a slender glass phial from his robes, and from it tipped a silvery grey powder into the incensor. Then he quickly left the room, and snapped the door shut.

Immediately, purple smoke began to pervade the air, the acrid smell making me choke and cough. After a short while, however, my breath steadied and my mind assumed an almost unnatural clearness of focus. Stepping up to the shelf, I had the vague idea that playing with marbles was not worthy of a youth of my status, but the thought disappeared almost before it had completely formed. I began randomly taking up some of the orbs, tossing them around for several seconds, before discarding them again. Finally, after what seemed like several hours of searching, I found a combination that sparked a response in me. When I held these three balls in the palm of my hand, a feeling rushed through me that was similar to the moment when I had cast my first spell, but fraught with a sense of such desperate yearning that it almost made me weep. More than anything else, though, I felt tired, and soon, I drifted off into unconsciousness on the wooden floor of the workshop, curled around my right fist, which was still clenched around my three marbles.

When I awoke, I was back in the entrance parlor, stretched out on a divan of almost epic proportions my head pounding from some gong of at least equal size thundering in the vicinity. The servant who had let us in was fanning me with a plume of feathers on a long rod, and a young woman was waiting nearby. When she saw me stirring, she came close and offered me a goblet of some liquid, which made me feel infinitely better after I had downed it in one mouthfull.

When I sat up, I saw my parents and the old wand-maker standing with their heads together nearby. Father smiled proudly at something the smaller man said, and then they all turned towards me.

"You made a most magnificent choice, Master Orion, and I look forward with delight to crafting this wand for you. One more thing remains to do, though. We must determine the vessel to carry the core, the body of the wand."

With that, he led me to a desk, and talked to me. We talked about the spells I knew, how I felt when I used magic, what I knew and understood about the workings of magic itself. But more than that, we talked about myself, about what I enjoyed, and what I did not, and without me noticing, the old man Sobek made me lay my soul bare to him. By the time we were finished, I was utterly exhausted, and the man facing me knew more about me than I myself did at that time.

As the wand-maker seemed to be in a state of deep contemplation, I dared not disturb him for the longest time. When he stood up and turned away, though, I uttered a request I had been thinking about all day, unable to suppress it any longer.

"I want it to have a dragon's head, and wings around the handle." I exclaimed, too excited to care about politeness or manners.

Sobek turned to face me slowly, his expression one of utmost contempt. "A wand is not an ornament, you silly fool! It is a tool! The most versatile tool imaginable. You can do almost everything with it. You can use it to make your dreams come true, your friends prosper, and your enemies suffer. If it works perfectly for you, it is a perfect tool, and does not need cheap decorations. Only an utter imbecile would hamper the wand's movement by adding unnecessary weight." The furious hissing of the small man's voice cowed me, and I merely nodded mutely, afraid to speak.

"Now leave, and I will have your tool waiting for you in three days time." Despite his earlier harsh words, he gave me a small smile as I turned around and left the workshop to rejoin my parents.


End file.
